


live through this (and you won't look back)

by cicer



Series: the war is over [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicer/pseuds/cicer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first battle is over, but Steve's new life is just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	live through this (and you won't look back)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashinan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/gifts).



After the whole debacle with Thor’s brother, there’s a huge round of press conferences that make Steve feel like he’s back selling war bonds all over again. 

It’s not a very pleasant feeling. For the most part, SHIELD handles the business of answering questions. The Avengers aren’t expected to do anything more than stand in the background and smile for the camera. Apparently, Fury doesn’t trust them to speak to the press themselves, and has threatened to boot Stark off the team if he spills too much. 

But the time comes, as Steve thought it might, where there are enough people clamoring for an interview with ‘Captain America’ that Fury caves in and arranges it. SHIELD did a good job of keeping the press away for the fist few months, and Steve is grateful for it, the same way he was grateful when Colonel Phillips threatened to dump any reporters who got too close to the Howling Commandos behind enemy lines. 

Steve has never been comfortable around journalists. But this interview is for TIME magazines, and there are whispers — Steve isn’t meant to know this — that he’s going to be on the cover. So there’s no worming out of it. Someone has already briefed the journalist about the questions they are and are not allowed to ask, and Steve’s been handed a stack of note-cards with his talking points written on them. He’s meant to say a lot of things about how proud he is to be serving his country in this new century and how pleased he is with the way the country has developed over the last seventy years.

The former is true, of course, and the second is _mostly true_ , but Steve still finds himself sitting in an overly-plush chair inside Stark Towers feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Ms. Potts showed him into her office, sat him down, had somebody bring him a bottle sparkling mineral water, and then rushed off to speak to someone about the press conference, or about Stark Industries, or maybe see to something Tony’s blown up. Steve isn’t sure. 

He knows Ms. Potts is a very busy woman, so he certainly can’t begrudge the fact that she can’t spend her time sitting around with him, but he wishes suddenly that he wasn’t alone, clutching his cue-cards, and wanting to be anywhere else.

Then, as if someone up there was listening and eager to grant his wish, the door opens and Tony Stark himself struts in. It’s not who Steve would have chosen for company, but his palms are sweaty and the room is too bright, and he’ll take what he can get.

“Hey, slugger.” Tony barely glances at him and wanders over to the miniature refrigerator tucked under a shelf in the corner. He opens the door and starts digging around. 

Steve is pretty sure that this is Ms. Potts’ personal office, but the whole building belongs to Tony, so maybe that’s why he feels like he can just come in here and start going through her things. 

Tony removes what looks like a packaged sandwich and makes a face. He put it back in the refrigerator and takes out a bottle of juice. He inspects the label, takes a sip, and then grimaces. He puts that back, too. 

“I don’t know why she buys those things,” he says. Steve doesn’t know if he’s supposed to answer. 

Tony eventually selects a bottle of water that matches Steve’s and cracks it open. Then, for the first time since he came into the room, he seems to register that Steve is there. 

“Nervous?” He nods at Steve’s water. “Want something stronger?”

Steve shakes his head reflexively and starts to answer, but Tony talks over him.

“Oh, right, the whole...alcohol thing. Forgot.” He makes a face that Steve figures is meant to express sympathy. “Well, don’t worry. Just smile pretty for the cameras and talk about how much you love America, it’ll go great.”

There’s little prickle of annoyance that sparks in Steve’s chest almost every time Tony talks to him. Steve’s not sure where it comes from, aside from the fact that Tony is annoying, and knows it, and seems to actually revel in it. But Steve’s known annoying people before, and it never made him feel this way. He decides not to think about it. He doesn’t like to examine his feelings too closely, these days.

Tony leans over Steve’s chair, peering into Steve’s face. He has no respect for personal space, and that makes Steve kind of uncomfortable, too. Steve tries to say something about it, ask Tony to back up a little, but Tony starts talking again. 

“Whoa, you better put something on those bad boys.” 

He gestures to Steve’s face, and it takes Steve a minute to figure out that Tony’s probably talking about the circles under his eyes. It’s been a hard couple of days, lots of reports to file and meetings to sit through, a lot of people wanting to talk to Steve, and Steve not wanting to talk to anybody. He’s been spending most of his time in the gym, pounding his way through another set of punching bags. Fury has threatened to bill him for the next set, if Steve doesn’t cut it out. But it beats lying awake in his bed, alone in the dark with nothing but his own thoughts.

But nobody has said anything to him about how he looks, and it makes Steve feel embarrassed and defensive that Tony noticed. Again, he tries to say something, but Tony is already swooping out of the room, calling out over his shoulder for Steve to stay where he is.

It’s pretty sad, Steve thinks, that this is probably the most successful conversation he’s had with Tony yet, and he hasn’t even had a chance to say anything. 

Steve sifts through his note-cards and then tucks them away in his pocket. He smooths a hand over his shirt. It’s not his, actually. Someone left it in his room, with a pair of trousers and a new pair of shoes. They’re squeaky and stiff with newness, and the shirt and pants have been meticulously pressed. Steve doesn’t know where they came from or who picked them out, but having someone dress him up like this makes him feel more like a performing monkey than ever.

Tony strides back into the room with a fistful of jars and little cases, which he dumps on Ms. Potts’ desk. He sifts through the pile and pulls out what looks like a pot of some kind of cosmetic. He dips a finger into the jar and approaches Steve’s chair. Steve sits up.

“No. Tony, that’s— ”

Tony brushes aside Steve’s words like he always does, like they’re nothing, just some insect buzzing in the background.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve watched Pepper do this a million times. Trust me.”

It’s funny, Steve thinks, that after all that’s happened, _this_ is the thing Tony asks Steve to trust him about. But Tony knows a lot more about the press than Steve does. He knows about magazine interviews and things like that. And, they haven’t gotten along great so far, but Steve is pretty sure Tony wouldn’t actually make him look ridiculous. So he makes himself hold still, and lets Tony dab some kind of tinted cream under his eyes. 

It’s not comfortable, letting someone that close, letting their finger near his eyes. But Tony does seem to know what he’s doing. He applies the cream carefully, with the tip of his ring finger. He stands back, studies Steve’s face like he’s an artist trying to figure out where to start his sketch. Then he picks up another case, the kind of compact ladies use, and starts powdering Steve’s face. 

Steve feels incredibly foolish, but he tells himself that maybe, in the future, this is the way it’s done. It’s not so different from the old press tours, actually. Sometimes they tried to get him to paint his face back then, too, before he went on stage in front of a big crowd. But Steve always refused, reasoning that the cowl would cover most of his face anyway. Besides, he’d seen the ladies backstage slathering on thick creams and heavy layers of powder. It didn’t look like much fun. 

Tony, at least, has a lighter hand with the powder. He finishes with that, goes in for another round with the cream under Steve’s eyes, and takes another case. This one is full of a darker kind of powder. 

“Bronzer,” Tony explains, when he catches Steve staring. “Makes it look less like you’ve been hiding underground for the last few months.” He smiles a little, crookedly, and Steve realizes it’s not meant as an insult. 

He keeps quiet, afraid that if he says something, they’ll just go back to bickering. 

Tony’s almost finished with his face when there’s a tap on the door and Clint sticks his head in. He rode over from the base with Steve, but he disappeared as soon as they walked in the door, and Steve doesn’t know where he’s been since. 

He blinks at the two of them, at the compact in Tony’s hand, at Tony’s fingers blending the make-up into Steve’s face, and Steve feels hot all over with embarrassment. But Clint just grins. 

“You ladies getting ready for the dance?” he asks. 

Mortification knots Steve’s tongue, but Tony is — of course — completely unfazed. 

“Almost. We’ve got to get our corsets on first.” He smiles at Steve again, a nice smile, a smile that invites Steve to share the joke. “That was a thing they did back in the forties, right? Corsets? Or, no, wait, was it girdles?”

Steve’s not sure whether it’s an actual question, but Clint leaves the room laughing, so he’s spared from answering. He doesn’t know the answer, actually. He never had a chance to learn too much about ladies’ undergarments. When he was on tour sometimes things happened backstage, girls changing costumes too quickly, running around collecting make-up and props when they weren’t fully dressed. Steve tried hard not to look, and that always made the girls laugh at him. Sometimes they patted his cheek and called him sweet, but that just made Steve feel like the skinny kid from Brooklyn all over again. Six inches and eighty pounds later, he still didn’t know how to talk to a dame.

Finally, Tony puts the compact down and studies Steve’s face with a look of satisfaction. Steve smooths the legs of his trousers again, to keep from curling his hands into nervous fists. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to thank Tony or what, but before he has a chance to think about it too much, Ms. Potts bustles back into the room, brandishing a compact and a jar of cream that matches the ones Tony brought.

“Steve, I have— oh.” 

She breaks off, her eyes tracking from the mess of cosmetics on her desk, to Tony, to Steve. Embarrassment curls around Steve’s throat again; he wishes he knew if this whole thing, this business of men wearing makeup, was something other people were supposed to know about or not. It’s probably all right that Ms. Potts knows, he reassures himself. After all, it looks like she was bringing him some cosmetics herself.

Ms. Potts walks over, stands in front of him and peers critically down at his face. Steve feels awkward staring back at her, but his only other options are staring straight ahead, where her blouse stretches over her bust, or staring at his feet, where his eye catches on her slender ankles and bare calves and her high-heels. He settles for looking over her shoulder, where Tony is laughing quietly. He catches Steve’s eye and grins. 

It’s hard for him to tell, sometimes, whether Tony is laughing at him or with him. Most of the time, he’s pretty sure it’s the former. But Tony helped him just now, and Iron Man has been a good ally, a good teammate, so maybe not.

Ms. Potts straightens, and Tony leans in. 

“I did a good job. Right?” He prods her shoulder.

Ms. Potts brushes him away and purses her lips in a fashion that makes Steve think that she’s very reluctant to pay Tony any type of compliment. But she gathers up the cosmetics, and when she glances at Steve again, she looks satisfied, so he figures it’s all right. 

“They’ll call for you in a few minutes. Don’t worry. We’ve made sure they understand what type of interview this is.” 

A puff piece. Steve understands, too. He wishes he were able to talk about something important, or not talk to the press at all.

“They’ve only scheduled a half an hour, so it’ll be brief. Just keep to the cards, and everything will be fine.”

“Yep.” Tony swings himself up to sit on Ms. Potts desk, and she scowls at him. “Just stick to the cards. That’s always the best plan.”

Ms. Potts lets out a very unladylike snort and rounds on Tony. 

“ _That’s_ rich, coming from you.”

Tony widens his eyes in a look of innocence that is so obviously affected that even Steve doesn’t buy it. Ms. Potts makes another exasperated sound and stacks the compacts and jars in her hands. 

“Don’t let him give you any kind of advice,” she tells Steve, her expression severe. “If he tells you to do something, do the opposite, all right?”

She hurries out of the room without waiting for an answer. Steve really wishes that people would stop doing that. 

Tony reclines on the desk, a look of benevolent satisfaction on his face as he twirls his water bottle. 

“That’s dangerous, you know,” he remarks idly. 

Steve stares at him. 

“Telling you to do the opposite of whatever I say! I could come up with some really creative instructions. She should know better than to throw down a gauntlet like that.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. Tony drums his fingers on the desk.

“Seriously, you don’t need to be so nervous.” 

Steve stiffens. 

“I’m not.” It’s pretty much the first full sentence he’s managed to get out since he set foot in this office, and that makes him irrationally angry. “I’m not nervous. It’s fine.”

Tony eyes him lazily, doubtfully.

“Trust me, they’re totally going to softball you in there. They’ll ask you about stuff like your favorite food, favorite sports team, favorite thing about the 21st century. Things like that. Just give ‘em some snappy answers.”

In spite of his protestations to the contrary, Steve feels a rush of anxiety. The things on the cards are all political stuff, sound bites about the Avengers Initiative. There’s nothing about personal questions. Steve wasn’t prepared for that.

Tony sits up on the desk and leans into Steve’s space again, scrutinizing him. Steve almost wants to ask him to go, so Steve can panic in private, but it’s Tony’s building so he can’t really do that.

“Here.” Tony hops off the desk and drops himself into the chair across from Steve. “We’ll practice.” 

His posture shifts and he leans forward, smiling confidentially. “Mr. Rogers, _so_ glad to have you with us today,” he purrs, in an alarming accurate mimicry of the lady-announcers Steve used to hear on the radio. 

“Tell me,” Tony murmurs huskily, “What’s your favorite drink?”

“Err...” Steve flounders for a minute. “Water?”

Tony’s polished, seductive pseudo-journalist facade cracks, and Steve can see him struggling not to smile. Steve’s face burns, which makes Tony laugh outright.

“No, no!” he insists, when Steve hunches in his chair. “That’s cute! Tell them that. Seriously, you’ll have a whole generation of kids swearing off Coca-Cola.”

Steve’s not sure exactly how that’s supposed to work, but Tony seems to be really getting into the act, so he doesn’t ask.

“Okay, next question. Mr. Rogers, tell us about your favorite sports team!”

Steve takes a deep breath and centers himself. If he can get through a practice interview with Tony, he tells himself, then the actual interview will be a breeze.

“Well. It used to be the Dodgers.”

“Used to be?” Tony lifts his eyebrows as if hearing some scandalous gossip.

“Well...they moved away from Brooklyn...” Steve hesitates.

“And your loyalties are to your home state. Is that right, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve clears his throat and straightens in his seat.

“The Dodgers are still my favorite team. I just haven’t had much time to watch any of the games, since...”

He trails off. Tony, blessedly, does not press the issue. He props his chin on his hand and looks Steve up and down.

“One more question, Mr. Rogers.”

It’s incredibly weird to hear Tony call him ‘Mr. Rogers’. In the relatively short amount of time Steve has known Tony, he’s gotten used to being called, ‘Captain’, or ‘Cap’, or on one particularly regrettable occasion, ‘Capcicle’. Never ‘Mr. Rogers. Never ‘Steve’.

Steve swallows and tries to project an aura of calm confidence. “Yes?”

“What do you think of your new teammates?”

This one Steve knows how to answer. It’s one of the questions written on the cards. 

“I’m proud to work with each of them,” he says, glad to have a firm, quick answer at the ready.

But, when he looks at Tony, he’s making a weird face. Steve stares. He doesn’t know how to interpret Tony’s expression. He looks...not disappointed, exactly, and not angry or annoyed. Just...unhappy, somehow. Or dissatisfied. Steve opens his mouth, meaning to say something, meaning...to apologize, maybe, because he has no idea what he did wrong, but it’s obvious that Tony didn’t like that answer. 

Before he can scrape together a response, though, Tony is sliding off the chair and rising fluidly to his feet. 

“Well. I think you’re ready. Just keep ‘em short, smile a lot. You’ll be okay.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, stupidly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Tony nods absently, but he’s not looking at Steve anymore, and he ducks out of the room with surprising speed. And when Steve looks for him, after the interview is done, Tony is nowhere to be found.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series, so there'll be more of this soon!


End file.
